Two Drabbles (Obi/Ani, Rated R)
Both drabbles were originally written for flashslash on LJ.
Frantic, Obi-Wan tore at his clothes.
The wine had been spiced. He had known it the instant the drink had pooled upon his tongue. One did not forget such a flavor, not after years of licking it from his lover's mouth. One simply remembered alone, replacing Qui-Gon's broad hands with more delicate ones, when it was wise to remember at all.
Obi-Wan was not thinking of Qui-Gon now. He abandoned his delicacy, his diplomacy, with the slamming of the door. The party continued outside, bright and loud, but in his quarters he pushed and pulled at his belt by the light of single taper, his ragged breathing the only sound. There, finally--skin, flushed nearly as red as the wine itself. He slid his palms down his thighs and moaned. Nothing more than that, and already he threatened to shoot. The briefest of touches and it would all be over.
Anakin, Anakin had looked at him across the banquet table, his own lips stained scarlet, and--
Pearls of white spilled between Obi-Wan's fingers. He sagged against the wall, panting. Soon enough, another hard come perhaps, and the spice would be burned from his system. He could face his apprentice then, when both flesh and thought had cooled. He could only imagine what trouble the youth had already found, his own heading swimming with wine, shoulder to shoulder with silk-clad women and velvet-draped men.
Without warning, Obi-Wan's prick twitched against his palm, ready for a second round. He stroked it faster this time, roughly, gaze fixed on the floor. Better to stare at gray stone than contemplate the visions just behind his eyes, better to see cold granite than memories of Qui-Gon, than fantasies of Anakin, than picture anyone at all.
Nothing on Jabiim worked. Every tent in the camp sported holes; every one of the speeder-bikes had been down for repairs at least twice. Even the reflection captured by the small mirror Obi-Wan had dug from the bottom of his pack seemed distorted somehow. At least he hoped it was distorted. He'd always thought his body fine before this, the three new bruises across his ribs and his mud-splattered skin notwithstanding. Still, perhaps he had been wrong.
Sodden clothing landed heavily behind him. "For Force sake," Anakin growled, "put that thing away. You haven't got a paunch."
"I feel old," Obi-Wan muttered, never lifting his eyes from the glass.
"Two solid weeks of rain will do that."
"It's not the--" Obi-Wan broke off, suddenly rigid. A single finger traced his spine from nape to tailbone, its subtle weight lingering at his beltline. There was no heat in the touch, only the slightest tingle. In an instant the phantom hand was beneath his leggings as well, its electric caress erasing all thought of further protest.
Obi-Wan turned, breathing shakily. Anakin sprawled on a cot some paces away, stroking himself. A smile played at one corner of his mouth.
"Still feel old?" he asked.
Obi-Wan didn't bother to answer. Not aloud, anyway.